Collared
by DragonChild85
Summary: SPN AU. Dean is a wealthy guy. So when he sees a young little slave he likes, he doesn't hesitate to buy him.
1. Chapter 1

_This has been up for months over on my Livejournal...realized abruptly it never got posted over here. *sighs* So, yeah. Still a WIP, but there's 3 chapters all together. I also have more Puppy Cargo over my LJ. Really, I'm more active over there than I am here most of the time. For the newest fics, head over and check it out. There's also a super-hot NC-17 Wincest kink story over there. *bribes* XD Anywhere, here ya go guys: _

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><p>"Sir?"<p>

Dean Winchester, multi-millionaire, and heir to a fortune more, folded down the corner of his paper to better look at his right-hand man, assessing with a glance before putting the paper aside, resting it on the heirloom, solid rose-wood desk, worn to a deep mahogany with years of handling. Robert's voice held that note; there was something that he wanted Dean's full attention on, and the Master would oblige.

"Yeah?"

The bodyguard rolled his shoulders, stalled for a split second before spilling. "Rumor is, Blake has a new slave he found, special for you. Seems legit."

Shit. Dean leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, pressed the tips against his mouth as he thought. He'd been tossing the notion around, contemplating if it was worth the work to get a new slave already, since Stephan had made noises about it, or just hang it out a little longer. But his knee-jerk reaction to having one already picked was to deny it, to refuse on principle alone.

Trouble was, Blake was a regular, and Dean knew if he said no, not only would he lose the slave, but he probably wouldn't like where the kid would end up, and he'd have compounded the problem by upsetting the slave dealer. He held his breath, let it out in a steady rush, tapped his fingers against his mouth in thought. "He say the price?"

Robert shook his head, rocking his weight back and forth from balls of feet to heels casually. "No. Just that he got the merchandise, wanted to let you have first dibs, if you wanted him."

The man had been the right-hand man to his father for years, and Dean saw no difference in the way he treated the heir than the previous. He had been bought by Dean's grandfather, released as soon as his Dad had taken the reins over, and had liked the man enough to stay on. And Dean liked him for more than the experience he brought to the table… he also didn't hesitate to lay it all out if that's what Dean wanted.

He thought it some more, finally sighed in resignation and sat forward, crooking a grin as he shrugged. "Can't hurt to check it out, right?"

Robert just inclined his head, stepping out to ready the car.

/\/\/\/\

Dean mused on the drive, watching the scenery shift from isolated woods and random fields ready to harvest to the crowded stench of the city, that he had influence over the majority of this. His entire family was filthy rich… enough that he held power over the government, could sway things the way he wanted with enough words. He had made enough of his own investments that had panned out a considerable profit that he no longer felt guilty for using the wealth the way he did now. Robert cast a glance over to his Master, and Dean shrugged, letting his thoughts drift as they want. It had taken awhile, but Blake was a decent flesh-dealer. He knew, now at least, to keep his trap shut, and offer Dean the choicest bits, the delectable morsels of his trade. But for him to take this sort of initiative rubs at Dean, makes him contemplate finding another to indulge him. He spent the rest of the drive contemplating it, finally decided he'd table the idea for awhile… see what sort of present the worm had found.

The dealer's den always amused Dean, to an extent, and he passed under the teary visage of the Virgin Mother as he knocked on the heavy oak door. Through the stained glass he saw movement, and a moment later, the door opened, the dealer bowing low as he stepped back. Robert took a deep breath, spreading ribs and shoulders wide, making his frame rather intimidating, and the dealer flinched, led them without a word. Ever since Robert had taken a special offense to Blake's tone on Dean's behalf, well… the slaver was rather twitchy near the bodyguard. Robert rolled his eyes, showing his blatant disgust at the attempt at flattery. It wasn't as if they didn't know where they were going.

Once they get into the lower levels of the church, the temp drops, as if God frowns here, and Dean tugs his jacket closer, tries to remain impassive to the slaves they pass. It's apparent there's a new shipment; some have eyes still glittering in fear and anger, wrists and throats bruised badly under the thick and heavy shackles. Milled among them are the older ones, the ones that Blake liked personally, and they're easy to spot. Their eyes have long since gone blank, reduced to mere machines at this point. They kneel as he passes, yank the chains of the newer ones, teaching them the skills to 'survive', and he internally flinches that they can recognize him so easily.

It's definitely time to find a new dealer.

He follows Blake to the furthest room, careful to keep his eyes on the bare toes that curl and grip the cold flagstones. It's degrading enough for them to be slaves, no need to add insult to injury by stepping on their toes. Literally.

The flesh-dealer opens the door, and the low, menacing growl that rumbles out is more felt than heard, and Dean raises a brow, not surprised as Robert slides a hand under his jacket. Dean figures Blake isn't stupid enough to try to off him, but that's what Robert gets paid to assume. The worm actually frowns, flips on a light that instantly cuts the growl and sends the youth flinching. The room is cold, dark without the flood lights, and it's no doubt a shock to the slave's eyes. He only flinches for a moment though before raising heated hazel eyes that are snapping in outrage and anger. "See, my good sir? My men found him, and I couldn't help but think he'd be perfect for you. I had them handle him extra careful for you. He's thoroughly unused." Blake twists his heavy gold ring, obviously nervous but excited at the chance to seal a deal, and Dean pulls up his mask, lets himself slide into the act of a bored, insanely-wealthy pervert.

He picks his way neatly around the cage, eyes shuttered and guarded, as he watches the young man inside. He'll admit, the boy is a pretty one. Tall as hell, even when he factored in the platform the cage sat on. Longer chocolate locks are limp, hanging into hazel eyes that are still snapping in anger, absolutely no fear in them. There's a darling cleft in his chin, pulling attention to his strong and clenched jaw. There's a generic collar on the youth, plain beaten metal, locked close with a tiny gold padlock, and a glance to wrists show the same treatment again, the chain between them gilded. He pictures his own buttery-soft restraints on the slim joints, encircling the slender throat, and cocks a smirk at the boy. Dean filters through words as he completes his circuit, noticing the eyes watching him express such hatred. His shoulders are broad under the white tee, and though it hangs off him a little, cheeks hollowed out a bit, there's no gauntness that indicates prolonged starvation, or abuse. "He is…very worthy. You did well."

The worm looks pleased, dark eyes greedy as he bobs his head like the quail Dean has in his yard. "Thank you, sir. I thought you'd appreciate him, sir." The youth in the cage hisses, and Dean smirks at him again, turns back to the dealer.

"The price?"

"6." Dean's eyes narrow; the youth is worthy, yes, but not exotic. The most he's paid here is not over four thousand, and that was for a very unique boy. He glances at his nails, buffs them lightly on his jacket as Robert shifts ominously behind them.

"I decline."

"But sir! He is perfect! Untouched!" Dean watches him blankly, and the man chews his finger, finally sighs. "Alright. I suppose I can do 5, but no lower, mind you."

"I decline." He turns to leave, makes it three steps before the dealer rushes at him, anxious.

"4!"

"You'll make it three, or there's no deal." The words are cold and bored, but the dealer nods, hands him keys eagerly. "Very well." He eyes the youth, who's gone still, alarm apparent in his hazel eyes, and smiles coldly. "Robert? Bring the boy to the car."

Blake knows him well enough to not argue over the lack of money at the moment. He'll receive his payment later the next day, in trade for a bill of sale, and the pedigree and linage will be a few days past that. The dealer knows better than to try anything with Dean.

Robert takes a step towards the cage, and the result is instantaneous, the fear now springing into those eyes as the boy backs against the far wall of the cage, shaking slightly. Dean rubs the back of his neck, hating the quivering in the child, and sighs hard. The guard glances at his Master, and Dean raises a brow, indicates its Robert's choice. "Shall I restrain or sedate, Sir?"

Dean weighs the choices… sedation would by far be easier, but he doesn't want to damage his newest acquirement. But the chance of the boy bolting… well. He runs his tongue across his teeth, tosses the keys to the collar to the bodyguard. "You may want to borrow some of Blake's slaves, to help hold him down until the drugs take effect."

It takes six of the burly guards, plus Robert, and the boy still manages to fight until the drug pulls him down deep. Perversely, Dean is a little pleased by that.

/\/\/\/\

He has Robert let him out at the Main House, lets the guard carry on to the stables to settle in the boy. It's cruel, he knows, but it's also easier to restrain the youth in the barn than in the house, safer for everyone involved. He's not stupid, knows that many a slave wouldn't hesitate to slit his throat in his sleep, and he also knows that he's pissed off enough people, they would merrily take a slave from him. The barn is more secure, with Stephan sleeping out with the horses every night, able to keep a keenly trained ear on everything.

He kicks his shoes off, settling them just inside the door as he sighs in relief, letting his feet sink into the thick plushy carpeting. It's a sinful indulgence, really, but one that he has yet to regret. His stomach mutters, and he slowly makes his way to the dining room, following the thick and heady scent of supper and the quiet giggles of the kitchen girls.

Allie, his cook, has his meal ready, plate set out at his spot and covered to stay warm, though he has no doubt she set it down minutes after Robert let him out. The roast is the venison he took down a few weeks back, still tender and succulent, and he nibbles it as he flips through the mail, sorting out what needs done tonight and what can hold off until the morning. He knows by now that they know of the new arrival, that she's packed a plate for the youth in case he's awake, and she settled the small portion in the bottom of a basket, tucks warmed towels around it, and covered the thing with apples and carrot chunks, pieces that aren't fit for her standards, but perfect for his stallion.

He isn't surprised when she refills his glass, cocks a hip imprudently, and raises a brow. Gossip travels fast, and even faster when the property is as small as his home one.

"Got a new one, eh?" Her accent is thick, even if it's mixed from several countries, and he offers a smile.

"Yes. Blake found him 'special'." Dean leans back, chews his lip as he watches the sun paint the skies, lighting the forests in multicolored fires, the leaves all bright in their fall colors of reds and oranges and yellows. He chose this room specifically for the dining room because of the view out the full-length windows; it soothes him as much as it awes guests. Be it spring, summer, autumn or winter, the vista is a stunning one. Allie hums, a non-committal noise, and wipes down the table, cants green eyes at him shrewdly.

"Got an idea where you're workin him?"

He huffs a laugh, shakes his head. "I don't even know his name yet. Why? Are you needing more house helpers?" His servants know him well enough by now, know they can ask things they couldn't of his grandfather, and he's surprised when she tips her head.

"I wouldn't turn down another one, especially a strappin boy, but we're makin do with what we got. Especially if Stephan needs the help." He hadn't thought of that, and he thinks on it for a few moments, until Allie is eying his place. Pushes himself from the table, grabs the basket with a murmur of thanks as he ducks out through the kitchens, lets her descend upon the table. She's an excellent worker; takes any smudge or crumb as a personal affront, and while his Mama raised him to clean up after himself, she works herself into a frenzy if he doesn't at least leave _something_ for her to tidy.

The walk to the stables is a bit of a hike, but the air has turned chill and brisk, typical of Autumn, and he loves the mosaic of colors, the scent of wood smoke, leaves dropping and rotting, the last traces of hay, and the warning of frost in the air. He chews his lip as he closes the last of the distance, gravel crunching under his boots, and decides that if the boy doesn't take too much time, he may take Kaz on a run, take the stallion down to the river via the deer trails. He heard the baying of the hounds a few days ago, thinks that the deer are moving around again. It wouldn't hurt to see where they're at, make notes for when the larder gets low again.

Robert is huffing outside the slave pen, eyes narrowed at his master. Dean laughs, teases. "What's the matter Bobby, the age sneakin up on you?" Robert isn't that old, bitches like an old man though, and Dean trusts the elder knows it's all in jest.

"Boy woke up, is what." He rubs his jaw lightly, and Dean can now see the swelling starting to settle in, the red imprints of knuckles beneath the stubble, and his joviality fades as he pauses.

"There's no way. The amount of sedative alone should have had him out all night." He's got a good eye for mass, calibrates doses to ensure the new slaves will be down if they have to be, down for several hours.

Robert snorts, rolls his shoulders in aggravation. "Well, he did. I was comin to get you… I think he tore up his shoulder with that little maneuver." He flushes at Dean's dark look, scuffs a worn boot in the faint dust of the stable walkways. "I already had him tethered when he started to come around. I don't think that he knew he was bound up."

Dean doesn't bother answering, just glances in through the thick green bars on the top of the stall doors. Sure enough, the left shoulder of the youth is deformed, arm curled around his waist loosely as he pants, eyes still glassy with the drugs in his system and pain. Dean has a sinking suspicion that this boy is going to be a bigger handful than he first assumed. "Damnit," he sighs, running his tongue over his molars. This was exactly what was NOT supposed to happen. This was the reason he sedated the more feisty ones that first night, so they can rest and not wind up hurt any more than necessary.

Nothing to be done for it though, aside from just getting in there and fixing it. He lingers a moment or two longer, dreading the idea of it, but knowing there just isn't any other option. "Alright, come on Bobby, help me out here." He unlatches the stall door, boots sliding a moment before biting into the concrete enough to use his body to push it along the tracks. The slave stall, and Kaz's door, were weighted down with iron inside the wooden frame, and each one weighed a small ton; insurances against his property getting away too easily.

The youth tenses as soon as they enter, scrambling backward until the chains around his wrists pull taut with a clang, yanking on his shoulder and pulling a pained hiss between clenched teeth. Bobby had at least secured him… the logging chains looped together around the latch points on the wrist cuffs before meeting again at the steel ring buried 4 foot into the concrete flooring. His ankles weren't much better, the chain much smaller, leading to another, separate ring. Dean had carefully contemplated each and every aspect of this room, allowed just enough chain for a new slave to be able to press his back against the cinderblock wall, not enough room to reach the side of the stall boarding Kaz's. And never enough chain to loop up and over a neck. Not after that one lesson.

The young man pressed his back against the stones, quivering hard from top to bottom, and Dean slowed, stopping and leaning against the same wall, trying to make his body language soft and unthreatening. "Heya." Hazel eyes flicked up to his throat before watching Robert keenly. "So, seems like your shoulder's pretty torn up there. Figured we'd fix it, okay?" The kid showed no inclination of responding, just remained tight-lipped and silent, and Dean sighed. "Okay, listen. I don't have all night. I'd rather do this with your acknowledgement, but I'll just yank it back into place, okay? It's gonna hurt either way."


	2. Chapter 2

_Sorry guys. I just posted Chapter 5 up on my Livejournal, and realized... oh. I forgot to ever update over here! *grumbles* Sorry! *winces* Please don't kill me? And I promise, more "Spooks and Shotguns", "Senses" and "Puppy Cargo" to come, eventually. /0\_

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><p>He doesn't sleep. Years of watching over the horses and the caravans at night have taught him skills that come in oh so useful now; dozing lightly, allowing his body the rest it craves while keeping his mind sharp enough to jolt awake at the slightest sense of change on the air. Catnaps, they used to call them, when you don't really sleep, but hover over that edge. Just enough to keep the body and the mind pushing for days longer than it could otherwise.<p>

The pain helps.

The man had come in, slow and easy movements, studied casualness as he crouched on the cement floor, hands loose and open between his knees as he watched with intense green eyes, body loose and easy and intent. Said he wouldn't hurt him, just wanted to fix the shoulder that had ripped free of its socket with a breath-taking pop, the one that sent sheets of fire through his body every time he breathed. Had asked for almost a half hour for permission to fix it, and that didn't match with what the slaver had said about his new owner.

_He'll tear you up, in ways you can't even imagine, and then toss you aside. Not one slave I've ever sold him has been seen again. The man's got the Devil scared of him, he's so evil. Bet you won't even last a week. _

He pretended to be dumb, skittering his eyes away from the gaze. The eyes hold power, can bewitch you if you're not careful, and if they think he can't understand them, then it's an ace in his sleeve that he can use. Eventually the man had sighed, striding close, letting him shy away until the chains tugged taut, and it was a quick, easy, fast movement that sent a pained whimper out of his throat as the joint ground and fought and finally slid home with a wet and sickening noise, twisting his gut with sound and the pain. The man's hands had been gentle, guiding him down onto the floor as his knees buckled, and again confusion slipped in his mind.

"Supper, for you. It's venison, so…" His owner had set the basket close enough for the smell to tempt, but he wasn't dumb. It was drugged, and even if it wasn't, there was no way a slave was going to get venison.

The basket still sat there, untouched, and his stomach grumbled and muttered unhappily. _'Get used to it, buddy,'_ he thought, shifting on the straw as he shivered. It wasn't cold; the warmth of the horse bodies and the straw was enough to make it drowsy-warm, and the stall was draft-free. The manacles on his wrists and ankles were chilly, but not enough to keep him cold. The shivers were his body begging for sleep, and shifting seemed to stop it. He let his head thump back on the wall gently, eyes watching the ceiling as he let his body doze again, trying to let the throbbing of his shoulder disappear.

When the screaming and thudding from the stall next to him shot pure adrenaline into his veins the next morning, it was hard to keep from panicking. "Goddamnit, you beast!" Thuds rattled from overhead, a light dust raining down, and he froze, quivering with the need to move and the knowledge that he wasn't going anywhere. Not with the thick logging chains buried deep in the concrete. Not in an unknown area. Another scream that he quickly recognized as equine, not human, and the solid thud of hooves against a stall door made the tension bleed free a little. Not a human being tortured. The voice came closer, growling and muttering. "Worse than a damned alarm clock, I swear. Give him a godforsaken minute you brute."

The huff of breath suggested a big horse, or a seriously mean one, and he edged further away from the other wall as the thuds started up again. His own door opened a crack, and a shrewed-looking man peers through, grins widely. "Well, you ain't deaf. No other way to sleep through that beast's racket in the morning." His gaze drops to the basket, still covered and untouched, and the joviality drops from his face in a heartbeat. "Oh, he ain't gonna like that. Not one bit." He sighs and shakes his head as he slips free of the gap of the door, and the wood slides shut again.

Great. He's stalled like a damned horse next to Satan's own steed, and he's just pissed off his master.

As if summoned by the thought, the door to outside creaks open, letting in the early morning light and the sharp bite of cold, and he shivers as he hears the new owner's voice turn low and husky nearby. "Good morning baby. You realize I could hear you up at the house?" The tone is quiet and overflowing with affection, and he hears the beast next door whicker quietly, can hear the shuffle as it backs away from the door as the portal opens with a little noise. "You, my love, are amazing at telling time." There's crunching noises, happy sounds if he ever heard them, and he cocks his head as the voice changes; sharper and louder now. "Stephan. Any troubles last night?"

The hostler just laughs, and the thump he hears he assumes is a boot kicking a wall. "Just this brute, waking up the damned county this morning. He knows when you're late." The tone is accusing, but the man just laughs.

"Had to get breakfast for our new friend." The tone drops back into the almost bedroom voice from before, murmuring quietly. "Oh yes, I did. It took a few minutes, but you knew that. Gods forbid I not be down here by the time the cock crows, huh?" There's the distinct sound of a hand slapping horseflesh, and the door shuts again. "Food time for all, then we'll let you out to play, okay baby?"

Somehow, he doubts the beast's name is Baby. But it's possible.

He scrambles to his feet as the door to his own prison opens, and his new owner steps in, watching him warily. It's familiar, and it takes him a moment to place it. The body language is the same as someone trying to keep from spooking an easily frightened horse; all loose and exaggerated movements, slow and smooth and calm. Green eyes flicker down to the basket, still sitting exactly where it was last night, and he can't help the instinctive step back at the anger that glimmers for a moment in that gaze.

The sound of the chains sliding over each other seems to stop the emotion though, and he sighs hard, scrubbing a hand roughly across his face. "Can't say as it surprises me. You were supposed to eat this though. Good thing I brought breakfast then, eh?" He trades out a pale pine basket for the other one, but there's no reaction from the slave. He knows better than that. He chews the inside of his lip, just a little, just enough that his owner won't see.

Gods, but he's hungry. The slaver wasn't about to try to feed him while he had a good range of motion, and the weeks prior had been scarce with food. He's got enough weight on him though, that he can afford the show of mulish determination. He won't eat, and the man who paid for him can't make him.

Because if he eats, he'll consume the drugs that are lacing the food, and then he'll be even more at this man's mercy than he already is. If the owner makes a move now, at least he has his wits about him. If he takes the feed, he won't even have that.

The other man waits several minutes, just watching, before he stands, dusting his hands off on worn but still nice jeans. "Stephan." The hostler pops his head in a minute later, brows raised curiously.

"Yeah boss?"

"He said a word yet?" The jerk of a head indicates exactly who 'he' is, and Stephan shakes his head.

"Not that I've heard. Didn't say a word as your brute started up this morning, either. Not a peep." The owner nods distantly, and the hostler thumps his fist on the doorway before ducking out again. He likes to make a lot of noise, apparently. His new owner turns back to him, leaning carefully against the wall.

"So either you're mute, which makes no sense, or you can't speak our language. But given your reaction last night at Blake's, I doubt that as well." He can feel the flush that heats his skin; he'd been livid last night, terror blending with rage into a potent new emotion, and he'd forgotten about that slip up. His new owner is observant, he'll grant the man that much. "Or, you're just pissed off and scared and being a stubborn little ass." The flush is stronger; he can almost feel the heat radiating off his skin, and the other man laughs, low and cocky. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Boy, you're not the first slave I've had, and I wasn't born last week."

Silence. After a few minutes, the sounds of the horses feeding and shuffling and the general noise intrudes again, and he finds his shoulders slipping down a little, loosening their defensive hunch. He startles when the man pushes off the wall, arms still tight across his chest.

"Alright, simple is best, I think. The sooner you calm down, and realize I'm not going to hurt you, the sooner your life will improve. I have plans for you that don't involve standing in a dusty stall all day." The man shrugs, the canvas jacket whispering over what looks like a silk shirt, the movement casual and careless. "Eat, get a little sleep, and we'll look into getting you a bath and some decent clothes. Your papers will be here later this week, and we'll see where you're from, alright? Get your name, unless you want to tell me."

He doesn't answer, and the man nods, leaving and shutting the door firmly. A second later there's rustling in the stall where Satan's Steed resides, and he strains to hear the soft murmur of his owner, the voice a low and steady noise. Almost comforting. If he'd close his eyes, he has no doubt he'd be asleep in minutes, and not just because he's pushing four days without it. A metallic clinking sound, and there's hoofbeats moving, the sound of horseshoes on stone.

When there's a motion of movement in the corner of his eye, he turns, and gapes a little. The bars above the wooden door of his stall are pretty high; his owner had to stand on tiptoe to see in, and he thinks he may _just_ be able to see through them himself without stretching. So when his gaze meets a warm brown one, he's startled.

The ears and the bit of the face he can see are as black as midnight, fur glossy and sleek, and the damned thing is _huge_. The horse snorts abruptly, turning to better view him, and he hears his owner mutter something. He's not really paying attention, more focused on the gaze that's probing him intently. "Kaz, come on. Now." The horse's head moves a little, like someone yanking on a lead rope, and it snorts, tossing its head abruptly. The halter is a striking silver against the shiny coat, and loose enough even he can see at this distance, it's just for show. The horse blows out a breath, stamping a foot, and he hears the master growl low. "Kaz. Now. That's not a request." He sees the hand grip the halter just under Kaz's chin, and pull the horse down and away. "You can meet him later, if he behaves. Hell, if you behave. Want to go see the colts?" The steps and voice fade away, and he slides down the wall, sitting hard on the straw. The last half hour has given him entirely too much to think about, and his head throbs dizzily, begging for food and sleep and quiet. He shoves it away, and starts carefully pondering the information that's been handed to him.

When Kaz and their owner come back, hours later, it's turning dusky outside, the sun starting to settle down for the night. He can see the tips of the trees through the bars at the top of his pen, and the sky is slowly turning into a stunning watercolor, casting the last lingering leaves into dark shadows.

He's dozing again, the sounds of the stable muffling into a generic white noise that's oddly soothing, when he hears the solid noise of the large horse passing his prison. It pauses again, shuffling around anxiously until the man tugs him into the stall next door, huffing in what he suspects is supposed to be anger, but is nothing if not amusement and affection. He fights himself free of the cloying caresses of Morpheus as the sound of a horse being un-tacked drifts across the high bars and through the wooden wall, struggles to wake up and be alert, even as the room spins nauseatingly. "God Kaz, did you bring in the entire river with you? Did you _see_ the mud on your feathers?" The voice is low with amusement, interlaced with the blatant husk of love, and the sound of a low whicker is a good counterpoint. The sounds continue a bit longer, low murmurs that don't always reform into words, and he startles out of his doze as the stall door shuts. He sits up fully, scrubbing a hand over his eyes as his door opens up, the man coming in silently.

He trades out a new basket for the old one, smiling at the empty weight. "Good. Decide to play nice for awhile?" He doesn't respond, just watches warily, and the master just smiles a little sadly, gaze dimming before he stamps a food unconsciously, nodding. "Alright. Sleep well then. Eat some of that, and we'll see about getting you a bath tomorrow, okay?" The man gathers up the basket and slips out, and the entire barn goes dimmer as he dials down the lights before shutting the main doors.

It wasn't that he wanted to play nice so much; more of the fact that the basket had been whole, unpeeled fruits and eggs that had been cooked solid in the shell. He'd spent hours carefully turning over each piece, searching and scouring for any marks or blemishes to indicate a needle had gone in, and even then had been reluctant to actually bite. The water had been sealed in new bottles, the seal cracking smartly as he turned the cap, and the food had gone a long way to inducing a drowsy state. It wasn't drugs, he knew; just the exhaustion catching up to him. He still wanted to fight, to toss his head in determination and prove he wasn't broken, but the logical part of his mind whispered that it would prove smarter in the long run, to act meek and quiet, to pretend to be tame, and make a break for it as soon as possible.

He nibbles the dinner meal half-heartedly, not really hungry, but knowing his plan will work best if the owner thinks he ate some. He lets out a tired sigh, stretching out on the straw, and just manages to get his toes to brush the wall housing Satan's steed. If he was any shorter, he doubts it would even work. But it does, if it's a smidge uncomfortable, and he lets down the shields he's held tight for months. Lets the gift that his people hate him for, fear him for, and almost instantly relaxes as the faint impressions of _warm comfort sleepy content herd-is-safe _wash over him. Kaz is too far away, the link doesn't fully work without touch, but he's close enough that the basic emotions can cover him like a warm and familiar blanket.

Dean is a bit worried when Stephan rings on the main line, asking him to get down to the stables quietly, but when he meets the hostler outside, the man is just smiling. Holds a finger to his lips to indicate silence, and slithers back inside without a noise.

The slave is stretched out, sound asleep and limp, his toes just pressed against Kaz's stall wall. And his baby, the massive black stallion, is pressed firmly against the same wall, laying on the sawdust and watching him sleepily. The horse has an obvious look of protection on his equine features, and Dean smiles, shakes his head, and makes his way back up to the main house quietly, ready for his own bed.


End file.
